The
shrill ringing of the alarm woke me. It was 6.30 am and both dogs were
standing in the bedroom doorway, waiting for me to climb out of bed.
For them, it was walkies, for me, log walking practice. I dressed quickly
and went outside. It was overcast with a slight drizzle falling, ideal
conditions for practising crossing fallen logs. We, (the dogs & I) made
our way up to the nearby quarry where many large trees had been felled
by the bulldozer to clear the area for extraction of the rocks used
for road maintenance.

I
chose a couple of small trees at first, quite narrow in diameter and
only a few inches off the ground. Chicken feed!! I crossed them at a
brisk pace, reaching the end and jumping down with great satisfaction.
Now for the bigger one, the one with the long uphill sloping trunk,
and the large bump in the middle, the one that bowed over in a great
arch, four feet off the ground. I approached it with confidence, stepped
onto the end and started to cross in a sideways shuffle, making my way
up the slope towards the bump then over it and down the slope to the
end, with just a slight wobble or two along the way. Piece of cake!!!

I
was crossing logs every morning now without a hitch. I never fell off,
maybe a slight hesitation here or there, but I always managed to regain
my balance before toppling over the edge. I was ready. For what? You
may ask.

It
all began a couple of weeks earlier. I had telephoned Ann to tell her
I would like to join her on one of the twice daily searches she and
her family and any willing volunteers did of the flying fox colony at
Whiteing road. "Yes" she had said, "Volunteers are always welcome".

I
arrived at the Johnson's in time for the afternoon search. The car was
already packed with whicker baskets to carry the unfortunate tick victims
and their babies if any, towels, syringes and bottles of tick antitoxin,
combs and tweezers for removing the eggs and maggots of the ever persistent
flies that struck the paralysed flying foxes virtually the minute they
hit the ground. We climbed into the car and were off. Ann chatted all
the way to the colony. She was excited about a new route that Alan Williamson
had forged through the forest. Instead of a 20 minute walk along a track
that skirted a nearby dairy farm, off limits to searchers, Alan had
found a quicker way across the river, straight down from the road where
we parked the car.

We
arrived at the colony. Ann and her daughters, Isabelle and Elspeth and
myself gathered up the baskets and we set off through the opening in
the forest, beside the road. We snaked down through the muddy forest
in single file, Ann extolling the virtues of this new track. Thanks
to Alan's efforts it now only took 6 minutes to reach the flying foxes.

The
leeches were plentiful, as always just after rain, clinging to our shoes
and even falling out of the trees onto us. I knew how to deal with them
though. Ann had shown me how to roll them between the forefinger and
thumb and then flick them away. We had tucked our shirts into our trousers
to prevent scrub itch from getting under our clothing and wore hats
to shield our hair from falling bat excreta. We chatted as we made our
way down the hill approaching the Beatrice River.

Suddenly,
the undergrowth cleared and we were standing on the banks above the
fast flowing water. My heart sank. Before us, stretching from where
we stood across to the other side of the river, a massive tree on the
river's edge had collapsed, spanning the water and forming a convenient
bridge. The bank dropped steeply away in front of us, so the log for
the first few feet was high above ground. It then sloped gently down
towards the water and crossed the river a couple of feet above the surface.

"You're
not going to tell me this is the only way across," I said to Ann.

"Yes"
she answered enthusiastically. "Wasn't it thoughtful of this tree to
fall just where we needed it". I could feel my knees already becoming
weak and I had a terrible sinking feeling in my stomach. "Alan has even
cut notches in the bark to make it less slippery." She rattled on.

"There
is no way I will be able to cross this log," I said firmly.

"It's
as easy as failing off a log," said Isabelle and Elspeth in unison,
quoting a volunteer by the name of David, as they both skipped across
to the other side. Ann then proceeded to show me various ways that I
might be able to cross. Shuffling sideways; walking slowly with arms
extended out for balance; even running quickly over so as not to give
myself time to think about it.

I
felt terrible. I had been enthusiastic about the search and really wanted
to be involved in rescuing the flying foxes, not just fostering the
babies. I said to Ann that I would wait on this side of the river while
her and the girls searched the colony.

"No.
You can't give up now," she said. "We will cross together. I will hold
your hand and help you across".

Ann
stepped onto the log and I followed clinging to her arm. We shuffled
sideways slowly, Ann asking me trivial questions and me answering with
equally trivial answers, as a diversion. Down the sloping section at
the beginning, then straight across to the small bump in the middle,
we shuffled, "How was the party last night? How did the holiday go?",
both of us talking continuously, saying anything to keep my mind occupied.
The knot in the centre caused me some concern and we wobbled precariously
for a second or two, but soon regained our balance without mishap. Then
we were on the flatter stretch leading to the bank. Here the log widened
and was only an inch or so above the water and we crossed this section
with ease.

"There!"
said Ann triumphantly. "You did it! It gets easier the more you do it."
I stood on the bank with trembling knees trying not to think that after
the search of the colony, we had to repeat that terrifying experience
all over again to get back to the car.

For
the next couple of hours, I forgot all about the log, the search of
the colony taking up all my attention. The stricken flying foxes lying
in the leaf litter on the forest floor were hard to spot. One had to
keep a watch out for the barbed tendrils of "wait- a-while" and the
furry heart-shaped leaves of the stinging bush. Both inflicted painful
wounds on the unwary.

As
soon as an unfortunate tick victim was found, it was taken to Ann for
its anti-toxin injection. The tick had to be located and dispensed with
and any fly eggs or maggots removed with combs and tweezers. The animals
were then placed in the baskets ready for the journey home. We carried
two adults with their babies and four unattached babies out with us
that afternoon.

By
the time we reached the river bank, it was dusk and we needed to hurry
if we were to get back to the car before the light disappeared altogether.
The log lay waiting and had to be dispensed with. The girls crossed
first, carrying a basket each. Ann said she would help me cross as she
had done before. My knees once more turned to jelly as we set off, shuffling
along the wide stretch just above the water. We reached the bump in
the log and I froze. We were about half way across, teetering over the
water. Even Ann's diversionary chatter didn't help me now. The log sloped
steeply upwards, seemingly stretching forever out of sight into the
darkness on the far bank. It was then I decided I would only be able
to manage if I sat astride the log, as if riding a horse. I was at home
on horse back. I dropped onto my bottom and dragged myself up the steep
section bit by bit.

I
had not realised how difficult it would be for me to haul my own weight
up the slope. Jeans ripped and tore over the rough bark and it seemed
to take forever. When I finally reached the fractured base of the trunk,
the forest was in almost complete darkness and the bats were circling
above in silhouette against the night sky.

Demoralised
and ashamed, I followed the others up through the gloomy forest to the
car.

It
was on my walk to the quarry the next morning, that I decided once and
for all, to master log crossing. I was determined that a mere "state
of mind" would never get the better of me again. Two weeks later, practice
perfect, I was ready for any log that would come my way. I could help
search the flying fox colony with confidence. I rang Ann.

"Do
you need a hand to search this afternoon?" 1 asked confidently.

"Volunteers
are always welcome." she replied. "By the way, Alan has found a new
track into the colony. He discovered a way to cross the river over the
rocks. You will never have to cross the log again. We've named it "Jude's
track". I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Post
script:
Since writing this story, the infamous log has been washed sideways
down stream following a torrential downpour during the wet of '96. The
forest giant no longer crosses the Beatrice from bank to bank. The forces
of nature have spared Jude after all!